


again

by textbookchoices



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27379210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/textbookchoices/pseuds/textbookchoices
Summary: Mr. Stark is touching his wings.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 152
Collections: The tuesday Celebration Flash





	again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sparcina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/gifts).



Peter’s wings are a dark blue closest to his body, the scapulars so dark that they’re almost black. They don’t start lightening until the red starts mixing in along the shifting coverts, blending into the eventual red primary and secondary feathers. The tips are a deep red, and he often finds himself tugging on them absentmindedly in class or while he’s out on patrol, waiting for something to _finally_ happen.

He’s not the one tugging on them now.

No, the rough fingers gently sliding over his feathers, touching them reverently, belong to Mr. Stark.

Mr. Stark is touching his wings.

Peter tries to hold his breath, tries to hold in the gasp as his body shudders at Mr. Stark’s soft, admiring exploration. He knows that Mr. Stark hasn’t had the greatest experiences with touch in the past. The news had said nothing else for months after he came back from Afghanistan—his wings had been ripped out, or fallen out from dehydration and malnourishment.

Or torture.

Peter knows it’s been years since Mr. Stark has touched anyone’s wings, except Miss Potts and maybe Colonel Rhodes or Happy. He knows that Mr. Stark doesn’t let anyone touch his wings. He created the suit to protect them from the world, to let him—to let him fly, with or without his wings.

Peter also knows that they’re gold, blending into a beautiful, dark red at the tips. (Like Peter’s.) He’s seen them often enough, even if he’s never been allowed to touch, but it’s different now, here, in the privacy of the compound.

They’re alone.

Mr. Stark’s wings are right there, close to his body, fluttering with every movement Mr. Stark makes.

Peter lets out a soft, harsh breath, and still feels like he can’t breathe.

He wants to touch them so badly. He wants to feel what Mr. Stark is feeling; wants to make Mr. Stark feel the way Peter feels, just from a simple, gentle touch.

His wings shake out, widening. Presenting. He’d be red with embarrassment if it hadn’t already been obvious that he’s interested, if it hadn’t already happened a hundred times over, his wings with a mind of their own, trying to—to catch Mr. Stark’s attention.

He bites his lip and looks into Mr. Stark’s eyes.

Mr. Stark huffs a short laugh, leans back and runs a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, alright,” he says, an answer to Peter’s silent question.

Peter’s fingers shake as he reaches out to touch.

Feather soft and beautiful; Mr. Stark’s breath stutters when Peter’s fingers connect, so careful not to tug or pull or tangle. He feels like his heart is in his throat, and he supposes that’s fitting, because it’s just the start of this—whatever this is.

He presses forward, fitting his mouth against Mr. Stark’s, soft, chapped lips against his own.

He tries not to tug, or pull, or tangle.

Mr. Stark pulls back a second later, a slow, easy breath coming out on a shaky laugh.

“Again,” Peter says, so quiet it’s hardly a mumble, and Mr. Stark’s eyes crinkle when he smiles.


End file.
